The Smugglers' Journal
by Hellinbrand and Knight of Blood
Summary: Warhammer Fantasy fic. When a job on a smalltime sea voyage turns nasty, Imperial scholar Jakob Brustgewicht and the Norscan pirate Yan are thrust into a world of corruption, danger and terror. Reviews, please!
1. Chapter 1

**The Smuggler's Journal – Chapter 1**

Jakob knew as soon as he woke up that it was going to be a bad day. The fact that he was lying facedown in the gutter and someone had just tripped over him merely confirmed it.

Grunting and cursing with alternate breaths, Jakob disentangled himself from the legs of the person who had fallen over him and crawled out of the gutter. His head ached and his mouth tasted like he'd been chewing bracken all night. His clothes were filthy, his hair was unkempt and he stank worse than a communal privy. Needless to say, he'd had better mornings.

As he wiped off the worse of the sewage, Jakob tried to focus on what had happened the previous night. Vague images floated through his fog-bound memory. He remembered entering a tavern (the same one he had woken up outside, he guessed): an utter dump of a place with earth floors and walls so thick with grease and grime that it acted as waterproofing. Jakob had drunk in his fair share of holes back in Altdorf, but he'd never been anywhere as bad as that before. As expected, he'd found a member of the Norscan crew he had been searching for sitting right in the centre taproom. A huge, tattooed, bear of a man, he had been wenching and carousing in equal measure. Jakob remembered going to speak to him but after that everything was a bit hazy. He was almost sure a drinking competition had been involved somewhere, and maybe even dwarf ale.

"That would certainly explain the headache…" Jakob muttered to himself as he retrieved his travelling bag from where it had been thrown beside him.

"Stupid southerner! What you trip Yan for?"

Jakob turned. The person who had fallen over him was on his feet and brushing himself down. To his surprise, Jakob realised that it was the Norscan he had been drinking with the night before. Now that he saw him clearly in the clean air of the street, Jakob saw that the Norscan was very tall, thickly muscled and beardless. Indeed, the Norscan did not appear much older than Jakob himself. The man's chin was covered in thick stubble, not the huge beard usually worn by Norscan men (and women, if the rumours were to be believed). He wore a simple outfit of dark leathers and furs, with great waterproof boots and a fine white fur cloak held at his throat with a bone clasp. The Norscan's mane of blonde hair was wild and uncombed: he had evidently had a rough night.

"Oh!" exclaimed the Norscan "It you! Weakling southerner who accept Yan's challenge! Southerner not hold drink!"

Jakob started at the insult:

"Hey! Back in Altdorf I'm famous for my drinking exploits! One time…"

But the Norscan just boomed with laughter and clapped Yan so hard on the shoulder that he staggered sideways.

"Yan jest! You accept challenge! You brave, if not great at drink! Come, we go drink more!"

"Err… I'll pass" Jakob mumbled, while his head giving a particular painful throb "I've got a crippling hangover and…"

"In Norsca, strong ale is hangover cure!" the Norscan boomed, one meaty hand grasping Jakob's elbow and steering him towards the tavern.

"Look, I appreciate the gesture, but I'm short on coin as it…" Jakob stopped. He had just reached for his coin purse, only to find it gone. Jakob's eyes scanned the gutter but couldn't see it. Jerking his arm out of the Norscan's grasp, he flung open his bag, but found it empty save for a few pieces of parchment and a quill.

"What wrong?" asked the Norscan.

"I've been robbed" Jakob said in a small, shocked voice.

"Robbed? Who rob you?" asked the perplexed Norscan.

"Same person who did you, I'd guess" said Jakob, pointing to the leather thongs that hung limply from the Norscan's belt.

The Norscan stared at them in disbelief.

"My purse! Who take Yan's purse!?" he cried and then launched into a string of Norscan curses, some of which sounded extremely vicious.

"It barkeeper!" the Norscan roared, striding up to the door of the tavern and beating on it with his fist "He rob Yan in night while asleep!"

"Open up door!" the Norscan yelled as he continued to bash at the door "Open, thief! I will _skada_ your _kyckling_ with a _rova_!"

"It's no use!" Jakob shouted, trying to make himself heard over the Norscan's loud threats "He won't open! It probably wasn't him anyway!" But the Norscan continued to ignore him:

"Open! Answer door! I Yan! Son of Stephanus Trollcrusher, slayer of… ship!"

The Norscan blanched, span round and rushed down the street, pushing Jakob aside as if he weighed no more than a child.

"Hey! Where're you going?" Jakob called after him, but the Norscan was already halfway down the street and accelerating fast. Swinging his bag onto his shoulder, Jakob gave chase, waving to the Norscan and crying for him to stop. The Norscan paid him no heed, however, as he rounded the corner and ran onto the quayside.

The Marienburg Suiddoc was the largest dock in all the Old World: over a mile long and nearly half as broad. Built on an archipelago of over a hundred little islands, the Suiddoc was criss-crossed with many bridges in varying states of repair. Huge stone bridges, crammed with shops, houses and tollbooths dwarfed little ramshackle wooden constructions, supported by spindly poles. Rope bridges were strung between the timeworn supports of ancient bridges long since abandoned. Beneath them passed ships from all the ports of the Old World and beyond: solid Imperial traders, majestic Bretonnian galleons, sleek Elven traders and exotic Arab dhows. Taverns, brothels, warehouses, shops and temples crowded the quayside while squat, weather-beaten dockhands kept the never-ending tides of goods flowing to and from the ships.

Jakob found that the Norscan was not difficult to follow; he did not move _passed_ people but rather _through_ them, leaving a trail of battered and bemused people in his wake. After a few minutes of chaotic chase, the Norscan halted at a vacant spot on the quayside and sank down onto the stone. When Jakob caught up with him, he found his quarry repeatedly banging his head on his knees and talking to himself in Norscan.

"What's wrong?" asked Jakob. The Norscan stopped banging his head and looked up at him with mournful eyes.

"Yan miss ship. Now Yan stuck here in southerner city!"

"What!?" cried Jakob in dismay: he had been hoping to barter passage to Norsca on the same ship.

"But surely they wouldn't leave you here! You're one of their crew, aren't you?" he asked.

"In Norsca, you fall behind, you left behind. It Yan's fault. Had too much drink!" groaned the Norscan, who then resumed banging his head on his knees.

"But… but… perhaps we can catch up with them" Jakob suggested hopefully "We could get aboard a fast ship and… and meet them at the next port! Where were you headed?"

"Yan no know. Father only say 'southern lands'" the Norscan told him.

"Well… well… perhaps they just moved the ship," suggested Jakob "They could still be in the Suiddoc!" He knew it was unlikely, but he was willing to try anything.

X X X X X X X X X X X X

It was several hours later and Jakob was sitting on the seawall of the Suiddoc, the Norscan slumped dejectedly beside him. The high, stone flagged wall looked north onto the pale Sea of Claws, stretching away to horizon where it met the gloomy late-February sky. It was low tide and the mudflats at the foot of the wall were dotted with beggars sifting through the ooze for a choice piece of scrap or flotsam. The top of the wall was crowded with gibbets, gallows and stakes, upon which the remains of pirates and other miscreants were displayed as a warning to others. Flocks of crows fought incessantly over the decomposing bodies.

Jakob and the Norscan had searched the length and breadth of the Suiddoc for the Norscan ship, but to no avail. They had even gone to the harbourmaster's office on the centre of the high Hoogbrug Bridge. After much arguing (and some outright threats from the Norscan) they were able to speak the harbourmaster himself: a grossly fat man with a terrible dress sense and even worse manners. He had swiftly and smugly informed them that the Norscan's ship had sailed an hour after dawn to an unspecified location and that if they did not leave his office _right this instant_ he would be forced to call the Watch.

"What Yan going to do?" moaned the Norscan.

"Let's see," said Jakob ruefully "You've got no money, no friends, you don't speak Reik…"

"Hey, I speak Reik good!" protested the Norscan.

"As I said, you don't speak Reik" continued Jakob "You've got no home and nothing except the clothes on your back. I'd say you're stuffed."

"Name Yan. Son of Stephanus Trollcrusher" said the bemused Norscan.

"Well I'm Jakob Brustgewicht, but you're still stuffed!"

"No. You listen. I – Yan" repeated the Norscan slowly and loudly, pointing to himself as he did so.

"Oh shut up" Jakob snapped "Come to think of it, I'm not doing too well either. No money, no contacts, all my gear nicked except for a few damned bits of paper and a quill!"

"You have me" Yan pointed out helpfully.

"Oh yeah, that makes it all _so_ _much_ better(!) I'm stuck with a lumbering northern half-wit whose grasp of Reik is only slightly better than an inebriated ogre's! I've got a chronic hangover, no money and I'll be the laughing stock of the Altdorf academic community, if I ever manage to get back there!"

"Slow down" Yan said "Too many big words for Yan."

"Oh forget it!" Jakob yelled, storming to his feet and heading towards an alleyway between two brick-built warehouses.

"Where you go?" shouted Yan.

"To answer a call of nature, moron" Jakob shouted in reply, although he was careful to mutter the last word under his breath. Jakob found a convenient doorway and, after few moments fumbling with his codpiece, tried to relax.

He had just finished when he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. Jakob was suddenly horribly aware how vulnerable he was. He felt rough hands grab his shoulders and spin him round. A squashed, sunburnt face pressed itself up against Yan's and snarled at him in a low voice:

"Alright now, pretty boy, hand over the money and we leaves ye be"

"I… I haven't got any" Jakob blurted out. The face chuckled and stepped back. Jakob saw that it belonged to a short, bandy-legged man dressed in sailor's short trousers and jacket. Two other equally repulsive sailors flanked him.

"Here that boys?" asked the bandy-legged sailor "'E says 'e ain't got no money!"

The other two sailors sniggered unpleasantly. Jakob noticed that they were both carrying stout coshes with what looked worryingly like blood on them.

"'Es lying" one of them said.

"No, really!" said Jakob "You're too late! I've… I've already been robbed today. It's the truth!"

"You're a filthy liar, ain't ya?" said one of the sailors.

"'Course he is" said the bandy-legged man "No one dressed like that's ever short of a few Karls, are they?"

The other sailors shook their heads.

"Looks we're gonna have to do things the 'ard way" said the bandy-legged sailor, drawing his cosh from his belt.

"Oh good" said one of the others "I _like_ the 'ard way!"

"Help!" screamed Jakob as the three sailors advanced on him "Help! Watch! Someone help!"

"Shut him up" instructed the bandy-legged sailor. With a malicious grin, one of his companions stepped forward and aimed a blow straight at Jakob's temple. Jakob raised his hands to protect his head and fell back in the doorway. Arms wrapped tightly over his head, Jakob felt a boot crash into his ribcage, then another and another. Then, after a few minutes beating, the sailors suddenly stopped. There was the sound of a brief scuffle and then a gentle mewling sound from the floor beside Jakob.

Tentatively, Jakob opened his eyes. One of the sailors was lying on his side, his nose a bloody splatter across his face. Another was slumped out cold beside him, his back to the wall. The third sailor, the leader of the group, was hanging three feet off the ground. Yan was holding him with one hand. By the throat. At arm's length. The sailor's eyes were beginning to pop out and his face was an interesting shade of purple.

"Thank you" groaned Jakob as he staggered out of the doorway, massaging his bruised ribs. The sailor's legs were kicking ferociously at thin air, while his hands tried in vain to prise open the Norscan's grip.

"Cowardly thieving scum!" growled Yan, "In Norsca, we hang thieves."

"So do we" said Jakob.

"Off end of jetty"

"Oh really?"

"With raw steak tied to head"

"Why?"

"For sharks"

"You have sharks in Norsca?"

"Ya. Big furry ones. Eat mammoths."

While this zoological discussion was going on, the sailor had turned from purple, to blue, to green and was now rapidly heading towards white. He was also making odd gurgling sounds.

"Let him down" Jakob instructed. The man hit the stone floor hard.

"We'll turn him over to the Watch" Jakob said.

"Sharks?" asked Yan, hopefully.

"No, unfortunately not. He'll probably get away with a regular hanging." Jakob explained.

"No, please… no!" gasped the sailor, who vigorously massaging his throat with both hands.

"Give Yan one reason" growled the Norscan, flexing his considerable muscles.

"I've… I've… got an… off… offer for you" the sailor said, getting shakily to his feet.

"We're listening," said Jakob, scepticism written over all his face.

"Listen… you say you got no coin" the sailor said "So you're looking for work?"

"Yes… you offering us work?" said Jakob slowly.

"Yes" nodded the sailor.

"Ye gods" he said, pointing to Yan "We could use a fighter like him in the crew!"

"You're on a ship?" asked Jakob, his curiosity piqued.

"Yeah. Bosun's mate, me," said the sailor, with a trace of pride.

"What sort of ship?"

At this the sailor looked shifty (well, shiftier than usual).

"We're… err, local traders. Run up and down the Nordland coast. Pick up… err, local goods and that for market."

"So no sea voyages then?" Jakob asked.

"Nah" the sailor shook his head, before asking: "Where you two headed, then?"

"That's our business" Jakob snapped.

"But what about me?" he asked "I'm no sailor, and I'm certainly no fighter. What use could I be aboard your ship?"

The sailor scratched his ill-shaven chin and spent a moment in silent thought.

"Hmm… let me see" he mused "You a man o' letters, ain't ya?"

"Yes"

"I thought so! Knew the minutes I spied ya, there's a bookworm if ever I saw one!"

"Get to the point."

"Look… our line of work, it involves a lot o' records. Book keepin' an' what not. Our clerk's always moanin' 'e could use an assistant. An' 'ere you are; ready made!" the sailor explained.

"Hmm… what do you think?" Jakob asked Yan.

"Yan no like it. No work with thieves."

"But you're a Norscan, aren't you?" asked Jakob "You're a raider, a corsair, a _pirate_ for Sigmar's sake!"

"That different" said Yan obstinately.

"Listen, it needn't be for long" Jakob explained "We'll work until we saved up enough coin to buy passage to Norsca on another ship. It shouldn't take more than a few trips. How about it?"

Yan frowned, but gave a curt nod.

"Yah. Yan do it. Yan no like, but Yan do it."

"Excellent" smiled the sailor, displaying his crooked yellow teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 2**

Jakob bent low over the pages of his journal. His quill scratched the rough parchment, pausing regularly to be dipped into the shallow inkpot on the floor beside him. It was night and he was having trouble reading in the oily light of the lamp beside him. So intent was he on his work that he didn't notice Yan approach.

"What you do?" the Norscan asked through a mouthful of hardtack.

"Writing" Jakob answered curtly, not looking up from his journal.

"Where you get boouk?" Yan asked, seating himself beside Jakob.

"It's pronounced b – uk" Jakob corrected, before adding "I traded for it with the clerk. He had a few spare and I wasn't feeling very hungry."

"Yan not blame you," the Norscan said ruefully, taking another bite out of the lump of hardtack in his hand "Southern food taste like wood!"

"You should try the cheese," Jakob said absently, returning to his writing, "The sailors carve buttons out of it."

There was silence in the room for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the quill and the crunching of hardtack.

"What you write?" Yan asked after a minute's concentrated chewing.

"A journal"

"What that?"

"A record of my journey" Jakob sighed. How did I get saddled with this imbecile he wondered for what felt like the thousandth time.

The seaman (who Jakob had later found out was named Ernst) had, true to his word, found them berths aboard his ship: the _Swallow_, a sloop of Imperial design but working under private enterprise. The scarred monstrosity that served as the ship's boatswain had been pleased to take Yan on as a regular hand, while the ship's clerk, an oily, servile Tilean with greasy lips and no hair, had sniffed at Jakob, but taken him on as an assistant none the less.

They had been at sea for ten days now, following the Nordland coast on a calm sea under relatively clear skies. Jakob had no head for navigation and was unsure as to their exact location, but the first mate had ensured him that this was a fifty mile round trip, no more. When he had asked what the purpose of the _Swallow_'s journey actually was the first mate had muttered something about trading for local goods before stomping off to inspect the bowsprit. But Jakob was growing increasingly suspicious of the first mate's story as days past and the _Swallow_ continued north, neither stopping to go ashore or receive visitors.

Jakob had a lot of time to chew over this problem, as his work under the Tilean clerk was laborious and extremely dull, involving little more than copying the ship's log or old stock records from one volume to another, as dictated by the clerk. For some reason Jakob was forbidden from actually seeing the actual ship's logbook. When he asked why this was the clerk merely scowled at him and chided him to be quiet and pay attention.

Yan, on the other hand, appeared to be having a much better time. He was a truly phenomenal sailor, out-performing all the other ships' hands with ease. The crew, wary of his Norscan heritage, treated him with a mixture of respect and caution. Only the captain seemed completely unafraid of him, but he was a remarkable man. Jakob had been amazed when he had first seen him. He had expected the captain to be a grizzled old sea dog with a beard like a dwarf's, especially with a crew as hard bitten and scarred as the _Swallow's_. But the captain was as effete and dainty as any nobleman Jakob had encountered in Altdorf. He dressed in the finest embroidered cloth with Arabian leather boots, his dark hair trimmed in the latest fashion. Yet, despite his foppish appearance, his crew treated him with a respect bordering on fear.

That would be nice, thought Jakob wistfully. In fact, just to be treated with respect would be a nice change. The sailors had realised he was bookworm and a city boy within minutes of him stepping aboard and had made tormenting him their favourite pastime. At first Jakob had been willing to put up with it, hoping it was some form of hazing, similar to the kind that he had encountered at Altdorf University, but even after a week the sailors had shown no signs of accepting him or growing tired of the bating. It had got so bad that Jakob spent most of his time in the clerk's workroom, only venturing on deck in the early hours of the morning.

"Want some tack?" Yan asked, interrupting Jakob's private thoughts to offer him a lump of the seaman's bread from the recesses of his fur coat.

"No, thank you" Jakob said tersely, before adding out of sheer curiosity "How did you get all this food? I only received one piece."

"Some southerners think they strong. Challenge Yan to _kampk_. Yan win food" the Norscan explained in his heavy, deliberate speech.

"Hold on," said Jakob, turning to a fresh page in the journal "What's _kampk_?"

Yan looked puzzled.

"You no have _kampk_ in south?"

"_I_ don't know, do I?! Tell me what is."

"It… battle, err, fight, test of strength… honour" Yan said slowly, searching his limited Reik for the right words.

"Do you mean a duel?" said Jakob cautiously, images of brutal single combat in the mess hall rising unbidden in his mind.

"Ja" said Yan happily "That word!"

"Oh gods" Jakob groaned, white faced "You haven't killed someone have you?!"

"Kill? No… We do _blodna-kampk_!" Yan placed his elbow on the desk and mimed forcing something down with his hand.

"Oh" Jakob sighed with relief "An arm wrestle!"

Yan shrugged and took a bite out of the lump of hardtack.

"So _kampk_ is a duel, and a _blodna_-_kampk_ is an arm wrestle" Jakob repeated, scribbling notes in the journal.

"No. In Norsca, we use fist, foot, anything in the _blodna-kampk_" Yan explained, pantomiming punching, kicking and head butting an invisible opponent.

"So… it's just a work for unarmed combat?" Jakob asked, crossing out the line he had just written. Yan looked puzzled.

"No weapons" Jakob added.

"Oh, ja. No weapons."

"You _do_ _kampk_ in south?" Yan asked, puzzled, as Jacob made the necessary alteration to his journal.

"Yes, but they're fought between gentlemen" Jakob explained.

"To death?"

"Sometimes. They usually stop at first blood, though. Most of them do it just for the scars, actually" said Jakob, recalling his university days.

"Scars good. But only kill prove worth" Yan stated proudly. Jakob listened, scribbling down notes, as the Norscan explained how the _kampk_ was fought not just for personal honour, but to decide tribal leadership too. Kampk took place in front of the whole tribe, in the centre of the village. Full battle armour was worn, and only a death could end the combat. Interference, from any quarter, was strictly forbidden. Yan's father, a king amongst his people, had fought _kampk_ many times to prove his right to lead the _kruuskar_.

"And a _kruuskar_ is…?" asked Jakob, turning another page in his journal.

"Sailor… warrior… err, parrot?" Yan guessed.

"Pirate" corrected Jakob, suppressing a chuckle.

"Ja. Greatest honour for man to be _kruuskar_. Why you write words?" asked Yan, peering curiously at the journal as Jacob noted this latest fact.

"I'm researching the Norscan people a book. It's going to be my first work" Jakob said, not a little smugly.

"That why you want go on Yan ship?" asked the Norscan.

"Yeah" sighed Jakob. Why did I have to miss that ship, he wondered, not for the first time.

X X X X X X X X X X X X

It was just past midnight when Jakob climbed up on deck. Yan was in his hammock below decks, while the clerk was tucked up in his own personal room behind the office. Jakob, who was forced to sleep on the floor under his desk, had come on deck for a quiet smoke.

The night was overcast, with only the dim light of the prow and aft lamps to light the deck of the _Swallow_. Jakob could just make out the hunched figures of lookout men in the forecastle; two thin wisps of pipe smoke curling above their heads in the lantern light. To the south east and starboard, the dark, shapeless mass of the Nordland coast slunk against the horizon.

Jakob stepped lightly across the deck, careful not to attract the attention of the night watch, and got himself comfortable in the lee of the mast. He had just started thumbing tobacco into the bowl of his clay pipe when he heard footsteps on the gangway and low voices. Jakob, anxious not to be noticed, eased himself further back into the shadows. The voices ceased as a team of seaman came on deck. They did not speak but worked swiftly to shorten in the sails and lower the anchor. Jakob watched with interest: the ship had not halted since they left Marienburg. Why now, at night, on such a desolate stretch of coast?

The sailors finished their work and moved swiftly on to making the ship's boat ready. From his vantage point, hidden in the shadow of the mast, Jakob could see them muffling the rollicks with wads of cloth. Whatever they were doing, it was to be done quietly and secretly. Jakob pressed himself up against the mast. He was sure that to be discovered in such a situation would be very unwise.

Once the boat had been satisfactorily prepared, eight sailors took up the oars while the rest lowered the boat down onto the waves. As the boat moved off into the night, guided by a single lamp mounted at the prow, the remaining sailors stood back to wait. Jakob was not sure how long he stood in the shadows of the mast, his breathing soft and slow, terrified of attracting the attention of those covert sailors. After what felt like many hours, the lamp reappeared off the bow. Soon the boat had pulled along side and the sailors were working together to pass barrels up onto the deck. The barrels were small beer casks and wet with seawater. It was slow work, and in the dark one of the sailors fumbled his sodden load and sent it crashing to the deck where it split and spilled its contents in all directions. One of them slid against Jakob's foot. Moving slowly, so as not to attract the sailor's attention, Jakob bent down and retrieved it. Running his fingers over it, Jacob found it to be a small, flat package wrapped in oilskin.

"Clumsy fool!" hissed one of the sailors. A lamp appeared on the quarterdeck and the barking voice of the first mate called out:

"What's going on down there?"

Jakob heard footsteps and, to his ever-increasing horror, saw the first mate and the captain, both wrapped in boat cloaks, descend to the main deck. The sailors drew back as the captain approached.

"Who did this?" he asked with a pleasant, off-hand manner.

The bosun raised one tentative finger to indicate the careless seaman. Jakob barely saw the captain move. He caught a brief glimpse of something metal flashing in his hand and the next the sailor was lying moaning on the deck, his left eye plucked out. Jakob felt as if he was about to retch, but fought back the impulse. To be discovered now would be almost certain death.

"Take him below" the captain ordered, gesturing to the mutilated crewman, before returning to his cabin at a leisurely pace. The crew finished their work in a subdued silence, rolling the barrel from the deck down into the hold. No one dropped anything.

Jakob waited in petrified silence as they returned below decks. As the last seaman retreated down the gangplank, Jakob stepped out onto the deck. Crouching in the shadow of a gun carriage, and still fighting back the urge to be violently sick, Jakob broke the seal on the package. It contained dried leaves of dark brown, veined with an almost phosphorescent green. It smelled tinny, but with a hint sulphur. It brought back memories of a seedy drinking den in the slums of Altdorf that he and his drinking buddies had stumbled into one night by accident. The air had tasted of it, the smoke hanging in the heir like a veil while the 'customers', for want of a better word, lay on the floor, long pipes barely hanging from their drooping lips. Wyrdroot. Highly dangerous and highly illegal.

All the pieces clanged together in Jakob's terrified mind.

Smugglers, he thought, they're bloody smugglers!


	3. Chapter 3

**The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 3**

The Tumble Downs of the Nordland coast are low, rolling and featureless. Nothing grows above a few inches tall there for fear of being torn down by the punishing winds. Low crabgrass and scrub are all that are to be found, apart from the lichen that clings determinedly to the leeward face of the rocks. No-one lives there, the land being unsuitable for farming or grazing. The streams, oozing through timeworn gullies, are home only to slime and frogs. The occasional pools that break up this monotonous landscape are foetid and devoid of life. Jakob, huddled miserably on the bank of one such pool, could not imagine a more depressing land. He cast a despairing look at Yan. The Norscan was hunched up beside him, staring mutely into space. Jakob put his head in his hands and groaned softly:

"Why me? Why, oh why, oh why me?!"

Jakob had not stayed on deck long after discovering the wyrdroot. Slipping the packet inside his jacket, he had quickly formulated a plan. Staying aboard ship was out of the question. Not only did he find smuggling profoundly immoral, but Jakob also knew it to be punishable by death and he had not intention of being seized by Imperial customs. Resolving to abandon ship, Jakob had woken Yan and, after a few tortuous minutes explanation, they had set about packing. The Norscan was far from Jakob's idea of a perfect travelling companion, but he was the closest thing Jakob had to a friend aboard ship and travelling alone in the Wasteland would have been practically suicide.

With that in mind, they had equipped themselves from the ship's armoury. Although he had loudly despaired at the lack of two-handed battle-axes, Yan had taken two regular boarding axes. Jakob, although a classically trained fencer and not unskilled at the sport, had never drawn in anger and was unsure what to take. With his favoured rapier unavailable he had settled for a stout cutlass, which he wore thrust in his belt. Gathering what rations they could carry from the stores and the little money they had to hand, they had slipped up on deck and into the ship's boat that the smugglers had left tethered at the side.

The night had been pitch dark but even as Yan had taken up the oars a faint grey light could be seen on the eastern horizon. Jakob had cast off and the boat struck out to the shadow veiled shore. It was all Jakob could do to not keep glancing back over his shoulder as the boat crept away from the _Swallow_ with what felt like agonising slowness. Jakob had expected any second to hear cries of alarm or worse, cannon-fire. Yan had seen unconcerned; all his attention focused on rowing.

They abandoned the boat on the rocky beach and took a well-worn path cut into the low, sandstone cliff (no doubt made by the smugglers' associates) up onto the Tumble Downs. Dawn was breaking just as they reached the summit. Turning, they could see the _Swallow_ lying solitary on the grey water and the figures of men moving about on her deck. Jakob heard angry cries as the figures gesticulated to the shore. Soon he saw the rest of the ships' boats being lowered into the water and the early morning light glinting off the sailors' drawn swords.

Not that Jakob stood around to watch. Grabbing Yan by the wrist, he had headed off across the Downs. It seemed a horribly short period of time before he heard the seamen's cries close behind and the drumming of many feet on the turf. Yan and Jakob had sped on, darting back and forth across the Downs, diving into every available gully and ditch in a bid to shake of pursuit. After a while, Jakob could not tell how long, the sound of running feet and the harsh cries had faded. He and Yan had carried on for a brief period, until they stumbled upon this pool, one bank of which was completely hidden by the grass overhanging the ledge above. This was where they now sat: alone and miserable.

"Want some tack?" Jakob asked, reaching for his bag.

"Yah" shrugged Yan. The Norscan seemed more bemused than afraid, sitting hunched up with his legs crossed and his white fur cloak drawn over his shoulders. His large blue eyes were quiet and distant; Jakob couldn't read any expression in them at all.

Jakob opened his pack and rummaged around for a lump of tack. Annoyingly, it appeared to be hidden at the very bottom of the bag, forcing him to empty half of it onto the bank. There was a sealed jug of ship's water, some cheese wrapped in a cloth, an inkbottle, a few dog-eared quills and his journal. The volume dropped onto the bank and fell open at one of the central pages. Jakob reached over to close it but stopped.

The page had writing on it. Jakob hadn't reached the twentieth page yet.

Jakob put his bag to one side and picked up the journal with both hands. The entry on the top of the left-hand page read:

'Received VIII barrels of root, IX bales of tobacco and V casks of spirit from Herr. Jutenburg out of Erengrad. Payment received in advance by the usual method'

It was dated seven months ago.

Jakob flicked through, glancing at random entries. It was a log of all the smugglers' dealings. Who they dealt with, what they were paid, what they received and where they got it.

"It's the smugglers' journal" Jakob breathed.

"Wuh?" said Yan, pausing in his determined assault on the ship's tack.

"It's their journal" Jakob explained "I must have picked up the wrong book in the clerk's office when we abandoned ship! This is a record of everything they've ever done! If we turned this over to the authorities, they'd hang for sure!"

If Customs were feeling generous, he added silently. This explained why the smugglers were chasing them, anyway. Jakob hadn't really thought about it before; he'd been too busy running. But now it was horribly clear: they thought he and Yan were going to turn the journal in.

What can we do, Jakob wondered desperately? We can't give it back to them; they'd kill us straight after we handed it over…. Perhaps we could leave it for them to find…? No, that wouldn't work. They might not find it and then only discover we didn't have it when they searched our bodies… We can't fight them… We'll have to outrun them. But where can we go? We've no money, little food, no contacts… We've only got one choice…

"I've got it," said Jakob.

"Got what?" asked Yan.

"We must take this journal back to Marienburg" Jakob explained, holding up the volume for emphasis "We can turn it over to the Burgomeisters. They'll protect us from the smugglers. It's our only hope."

"Where Mariaburg?"

"Ma-ree-en-burg" sighed Jakob "It's the city we left a few days ago? The _southern city_?"

"Oh yah" Yan nodded.

"It's south of here, I'm not sure how far" said Jakob, privately cursing his ignorance of the local geography. I never thought I'd need to know anything about this gods-forsaken hole, he thought bitterly.

Jakob resolved to wait till nightfall, then he and Yan could head south in the dark. Hopefully their supplies would last until they reached a settlement. In the meantime, call they could do was wait.

After many hours of tedious silence (the highlight of which was a frog poking its head out of the pool and then diving back down again), the sun descended. Jakob waited until it was fully dark (mercifully, it was a cloudy night) until he roused Yan, who seemed to be dozing lightly.

"We're heading south" Jakob explained "It shouldn't take us more than a week to get there, even less to find a village or something. Now stay close…"

Jakob was just about to brush the grass screen aside when Yan's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. The Norscan shook his head violently and placed a finger to his lips.

"Oh don't be stupid" scoffed Jakob "They won't be looking for us after dark! They'll wait til…"

"Hey, what's that?"

"Over here!"

Jakob froze in terror as a lamp bobbed into view, less than ten paces from the pool edge. Two men could just been seen silhouetted against the yellow light.

"In there!" cried one of them, pointing at the overhang.

"Run!" hissed Jakob, but Yan was already up and heading for the other side of the pool. Jakob followed, bursting through the overhand and out into the exposed night.

"We've found them!"

"Get them!"

"There!"

The lamp bearers were strung out across the Downs in a great line, stretching into the distance on both sides. As the cry echoed out, they began to converge on the pool. Jakob could hear feet and angry voices approaching. Then there was the terrible whisper of crossbow bolts being loosed and the soft thud of them burying themselves in the turf. Something shot past Jakob's ear and his limbs and bowels all unfroze at once.

It was a dreadful hunt. Jakob led, spurred on by the terror of the silent crossbow bolts, with Yan close behind, their pursuers an endless wall of light and noise, always just behind them, never tiring, never slowing. The quarry blundered through the night, into ditches and over hillocks, sometimes up their waists in stinking pools. Slowly, Jakob became aware of a presence up ahead, high and dark against the clouded sky. At first he thought it was a cliff, or a wall but as he drew closer he could see that it was a forest.

"Head… for… the… trees!" Jakob screamed, his lungs burning with the effort of running. He heard Yan shout a reply in Norscan, but he did not give it a moment's thought.

In the light of the smugglers' lamps Jakob could see the edge of the forest up ahead. The trees were huge conifers, their branches long and cruel. Jakob made for a narrow gap, squeezing between the trunks of two of the nearest trees and ploughed on, Yan close behind. The smugglers followed, the lamplight filling the forest with strange and grotesque shadows. Jakob cried in alarm as the shadows rose around him, but he ran on, sweat of fear now mingling with the sweat of the chase.

That was when they heard the drums.

They were distant at first, but grew louder with every breath. Where they came from Jakob couldn't tell. It seemed to be from the west, ahead, but there were echoes both to the south and north. The lamps wavered. There were cries of fear behind them now, not cries of anger. The running feet changed direction as the smugglers' fled back to the Downs.

Jakob stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a tree, Yan beside him. The Norscan was breathing steadily, but didn't appear to be out of breath.

The drums grew louder and closer.

"This… way" gasped Jakob, pushing himself off the tree and starting toward what he guessed was the south.

"Wait! Hold, southerner!" Yan shouted.

"Are… you… mad?!" Jakob shouted over his shoulder as he broke into a run "Can't… you… hear… the drums? We…must…run!"

Yan shouted something in Norscan but Jakob ignored him and raced on. The drumming was very close now. It seemed to be coming from all sides. Jakob could hear horse's hooves and the braying of horns. He ran on, trees snatching and tearing at his clothes. He tripped, dragged himself upright and staggered on, stunned from panic and exhaustion.

The drumming was on top of him now. It was inside of him, beating out its relentless rhythm on his bones. He thought his head was going to explode. He drove his way through another tangle of branches and needles and came face to face with a nightmare.

The thing, for it could not be called a man, was about the size of a child. By the light of the torch it carried, Jakob could see that its skin had an unnatural yellow-orange tinge, while its eyes were of the deepest purple. Twisted in its face, its head was bald and crowned with two stubby horns like a young goat. It was dressed only in a loincloth and carried a stone-tipped spear.

Jakob screamed and backed away, hand flailing wildly for his cutlass. The creature watched him curiously for a moment, then threw back its head and let out a long, screeching wail. Jakob's hand at last grasped the cutlass. He was about to draw when he heard the drumming of hooves. Something burst from the trees behind Jakob and struck him on the back of the head. Jakob fell sprawling at the little creature's feet. Turning his head, he saw a terrible monster. It was shaped like a large man, but only just. It had cloven hooves for feet and a goat's head upon its shoulders. In its right hand it carried a spear and a round shield, decorated with scalps, was on its left arm. It stared down at Jakob with dumb, bloodshot eyes. Jakob knew, with absolute certainty, that his only chance of survival was to lie still and make no sound.

The goat headed creature spoke to the first creature in a tongue Jakob could not understand. It had a deep, braying voice, stamping and gesturing a great deal as it spoke. The smaller creature chattered back in a voice like a terrier's. Jakob heard more hooves approaching and suddenly the space around him was filled with the terrible man-creatures, each braying and stamping as loud as they could. Then he felt rough hands take him and sling him over something's shoulder. Close to, the creatures' smell, a mixture of unwashed hair and flesh and an odour Jakob could not identify, was almost unbearable. The creatures gave a great roar and headed off through the trees, Jakob borne along like some prize kill of the hunt.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 4**

Jakob wasn't sure how far he'd travelled. The journey had been awful; slung over the goatman's shoulder, his face pressed up against its reeking, hairy, sweaty flesh; it surely a miracle that he had not passed out. But now it was even worse.

They had bound him to a pine with thick, knotted ropes. Before him was a great clearing, lit by a bonfire raised before a barren oak that grew in the centre, atop a low mound. Jakob could see faces all around him: of goats and dogs, sheep and cows, beasts and men. They passed in and out of the light, wild bloodshot eyes and frothing lips flickering in the shadows. Here and there a stone weapon glinted like steel in the firelight. The air was filled with their stink; a potent combination of fur, sweat and feces. Above it all was raised the harsh, braying tongue that Jakob could not understand.

One of the creatures stepped forward, silhouetted against the fire. Jakob could not believe its size; it was built more like an ogre than a man, with a ram's head and two horns curling back on themselves. It lifted a two-handed axe up high, the steel head beaming in the firelight. The ram-monster threw back its head and gave a long, bawling call. The other creatures fell silent, focusing their attention on the giant. The creature addressed them in words unnatural to human lips, its audience roaring their approval.

All of a sudden, a huge gout of green fire erupted from the oak behind the campfire. It shot high into the air, illuminating the clearing and, for a brief moment, seeming to twist the tree's cragged bark into a monstrous face. The creature's cried in alarm and drew back, watching the oak nervously. For a moment, nothing in the clearing moved. Then the ram-monster stepped back before the fire and roared something to the assembly. They answered with a great cry, louder than any Jakob had yet heard. The beastmen were stamping their hooves on the ground, drumming on their shields and screaming at the top of their lungs. Jakob felt his legs give way beneath him, but the ropes held him tight to the tree.

The ram-monster gave what sounded like a command, and the host parted, leaving a long aisle between Jakob and the fire. Jakob watched as a smaller beastman shuffled down the aisle towards him. It was at least a head-shorter than its fellows, concealed beneath vast, tattered robes. Only its snout and long, stag horns could be seen, protruding from its voluminous cowl. It was carrying a rough stone amphora, which it proceeded to upend over Jakob's head. It was filled with a warm, sticky liquid mixed with some sort of rotting plant material. It smelled like pig swill….

'Ye gods' Jakob thought 'It's seasoning. They're garnishing me!'

With a triumphant bray, the cowled beastmen smashed the amphora to the ground. The beastmen roared their approval. Jakob was sure he was going to faint. The cowled creature motioned to two nearby beastmen. They started toward Jakob, stone axes raised to cut him loose.

They froze. They could hear the drums.

They were very faint, but audible. Jakob guessed they were many miles away, but he couldn't guess the distance. The beastmen evidently couldn't tell either. They began sniffing the air, ears raised. After a moment, the huge ram-creature bellowed out an order. Jakob heard the drumming of smaller hooves and glanced a number of the smaller creatures moving out of the firelight and into the forest.

The drums continued. They were closer now, and coming from a different, but still uncertain, direction.

The beastmen were openly nervous now. There was a general muttering of voices and a few cries of anger. Jakob saw the ram-creature bending down, presumably to take council with some of its followers. After a minute's 'conversation', for want of a better word, the ram-monster straightened up and began roaring its orders, gesturing to various points round the clearing. This was the signal for a brief period of general uproar as the beastmen moved out of the clearing, streaming off into six distinct 'columns', each heading in a different direction. In a few minutes the clearing was deserted, save for the ram-monster, his cowled minion and six of the biggest, most brutish warriors. They took up positions surrounding the oak (Jakob noticed they did not get too close, obviously for fear of another fire blast), as if guarding it. Jakob wondered if that was what he was to be fed to. Was that their god? Whatever had been happening, he seemed to have been forgotten.

Time dragged on. Everything was still beneath the stars. Once or twice, Jakob felt his head droop onto his shoulder but he quickly shook himself awake. He knew his chances of escape were slim, but he wanted to be ready to take them when they came. But despite his efforts, the exhaustion of the chase and the terror of the night had taken their toll. So it was that Jakob did not notice when the drums stopped. When he saw the first beastman collapse, he took it to be a sleep-starved fantasy.

But the spear protruding from the beastman's chest was no vision. Nor were the angry cries of its comrades. Then something came rushing out of the trees and across the clearing. At first Jakob thought it was another beastman, being black and powerfully built. But as it drew closer to the firelight, Jakob could see, to his mounting disbelief, that it was in fact Yan. He had discarded his white-fur cloak and, stripped to the waist, had plastered his body and face with mud. He had a crude wooden spear in his right hand, and one of the boarding axes in his left.

He cast his spear at the beastman closest to him, but the monster was ready for him and caught it on his shield. Seemingly unfazed, Yan switched his axe to his right hand and hurled it past the first beastman and into the shoulder of the second. The creature squealed in pain and dropped, blood pouring down its arm and torso.

Yan meanwhile had closed with the first beastman, wielding his second axe, which he had now drawn from his belt. He side stepped the creature's wild spear thrust and decapitated it with a swift forehand stroke. Splattered with the creature's lifeblood, Yan shouldered his way past the body and retrieved his other axe from the dying body of the second beastman.

The other beastmen had rounded the oak by now, their leader hanging back to observe and direct. Two closed on Yan at once, while a third went wide to try and circle behind. Deflecting his opponents' incoming blows, Yan circled to the right, trying to keep all the beastmen in view at once. One of them aimed a vicious backhander at Yan's throat. Jakob cried out, sure it would take the Norscan's head off, but Yan ducked at the last moment and struck out at the beastman's leg. The creature screamed and toppled, the limb severed above the knee. Yan blocked a downward stroke by another beastman, kicked out at its stomach. The creature doubled over, Yan's axe buried in its back a moment later. The last two attempted to rush him, but Yan cast his first axe into one face and then, after a moment's frantic wrestling, gutted the other one with the second. Leaving only the ram-monster.

Seeing Yan square up to the leading beastman, Jakob realised he hadn't appreciated how truly colossal the creature was. It was a head taller than the Norscan, and then some. It wielded its steel axe in both hands, swinging it round its body in long, complicated arcs. Yan's boarding axes suddenly looked very poor by comparison.

Evidently thinking on his feet, the Norscan dropped one of the boarding axes and swept up a shield from a body near his feet and banging the edge of his axe against the shield rim. The ram-monster stepped forward, axe whirling forward, and brought it down in an overhead chop. Yan caught the blow on the shield. The wood held, but the shock of impact forced the Norscan down onto one knee.

The ram-monster swung again, this time aiming for a killing blow. Yan rolled with the stroke, past the beastman, flicking a blow towards the creature's leg as he did so. But the awkward angle and the speed of the move prevented him from causing more than a shallow cut. The beastman bellowed in frustration and began hurling wildly inaccurate strokes at the Norscan. Yan rolled aside again and regained his feet.

The two opponents began to circle one another, warily sizing each other up. Jakob could see hatred in the beastman's eyes, a feral rage as old and primitive as the forests. And, perhaps even more terrifyingly, he could see it in Yan's eyes too. Jakob remembered reading something about the Norscan 'berserker rage' back in Altdorf University library. Was this it?

Yan darted forward, obviously trying to catch the beastman off balance. His opponent caught Yan's axe stroke on the haft of his two-handed weapon and twisted it out of his grip. Yan stumbled back, but he had no time to recover. The beastman's next blow split his shield in two and knocked Yan to the ground.

The Norscan's hands scrabbled in all directions. Jakob cried out in fear. The creature stepped forward, poised from the final stroke. Yan's fingers closed on a stone-tipped spear lying on the grass beside him. More by luck than skill, Yan's blind thrust buried itself in the ram-monster's ribs. The beastman howled in pain. Bending down, it bit the spear haft in two.

This was all the distraction that Yan needed. Leaping from the ground onto to his feet in one move, he closed in with the beastman, hands wrapped round its throat. The two fighters collapsed to the ground. For a moment Jakob couldn't see what was happening; there was only a writhing storm of flesh and fur and blood. Then Yan was on his feet, his left shoulder bloody, the beastman's axe in his hands. The ram-monster bounded up after him. Yan smashed the butt of the axe into its mouth, showering the clearing with blood and teeth. The ram-monster stumbled back, howling, its hands clasped over its snout. Yan raised the axe up to shoulder height and, with one long stroke, cut the beastman in half.

In a moment of terrifying clarity, Jakob realised, that of all the terrifying things he had seen that evening, the triumphant Yan was the worst of them. Caked in blood, mud and sweat, his eyes alight with the joy of the kill, he threw back his head roared in triumph. In that moment, he looked more savage than any of the beastman.

Then came the sound of a pair of hooves sprinting away. The beastmen's cowled priest-chef was fleeing across the clearing; its robes hitched up above the knee like some duchess's skirts. Yan plucked his makeshift spear from the beastman's corpse and, with an almost lazy throw, skewered the creature to a tree.

Yan crossed the clearing and cut the ropes binding Jacob to the tree. Jakob toppled forward onto his hands and knees, vomiting as if his life depended on it.

"What wrong with you, southerner?" asked Yan.

"Wha… how… huh?" was all that Jakob could manage to gasp out between upheavals.

"We must go" said Yan "_Ydyr_ not hunt long. Will return soon. Must go, now!"

"Yes… yes… just… give me a minute," Jakob said as the last of his breakfast completed its return journey.

They had just begun to cross the clearing, Yan supporting Jakob with one meaty shoulder, when they heard a faint voice calling from the barren oak:

"Err… friends…a little help please."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 5**

Yan and Jakob stared at each other in perplexed silence.

"Did… did you just hear that tree… speak?" Jakob asked.

"Yah"

"Oh good. So it isn't just me…"

Another call came from the tree:

"Friends… Help… Please!"

The voice was faint and trembling. It certainly did not belong to a beastman. Could it belong to a tree?

Yan and Jakob tentatively approached the oak. Jakob drew his cutlass with deliberate slowness, although he wondered what use it would be against a tree. He would put far more faith in the two handed battleaxe Yan had lifted from the beastman chief.

They were now standing at the foot of the low mound, just below the oak's twisted 'face'. Jakob fancied he could spot something moving in the shadowy belly of the trunk.

"W-what d-do you want?" Jakob called, his voice shaking nearly as badly as his hand. The point of his cutlass was tracing figures-of-eight in the air.

"L-let me out!"

This time the voice was almost a shriek. There was more frantic movement from within the trunk. A long, pale hand was thrust out through one of the holes.

"You think we should?" Yan asked Jakob in a low voice.

"I think that's a man in there" Jakob replied "It might be one of their prisoners."

"Stand back!" Jakob called up "We're going to cut you out!"

Yan planted one foot on the mound and raised the axe behind his head. The ancient wood, weak with rot and decay, gave way under the second blow. Yan leapt back as a figure tumbled headlong through the gap onto the clearing floor. Jakob, still keeping the cutlass handy, bent down and gingerly rolled it onto its back.

It was a man, quite young; no more than twenty-five winters, Jakob guessed. He was a sickly pale colour that contrasted sharply with the dark hair and beard which clung plant-like to his head. He wore a long peasant's smock of coarse fiber, as favoured by the northern farmers.

"Are you alright?" Jakob asked, gently shaking the man's shoulder. He gave a soft moan and opened his eyes. Jakob sprang back in horror: he had never seen eyes like them before. Red-rimmed and of a brilliant, almost unnatural, green, they seemed to stare right through you _and beyond_. These were clearly eyes that had seen far more than human eyes were meant to see.

After a moment, the stranger spoke. His voice was cracked and oddly distorted, as if he couldn't quite remember how to speak.

"Uhh!" he croaked, pointing at Jakob "Ohh! Gimme… gimme it!"

Jakob felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck. The sounds of the forest were deadened. His whole body felt slightly numb. The only sense that remained clear was the smell of sulphur in his nostrils, sharp and pungent. The stranger tried to sit up, bracing one hand on the ground. As he raised it up again, the ground seemed to melt away under his fingers, leaving behind a little face, leering up at them. It laughed in a high-pitched voice and gnashed its teeth at Jakob. Jakob screamed and stumbled back. Yan gave a cry and stamped on the face, but this simply made it laugh harder.

The stranger was now on his feet and lurching toward Jakob. With each step he took, more of the little faces appeared.

"Gimme! Gimme fix!"

Clouds began to roll over the, previously clear, night sky. Jakob tried to raise the cutlass, but his arm just hung dead at his side. Yan was furiously trying to stamp out the faces, but to no avail. The stranger staggered forward and collapsed to his knees in front of Jakob.

"Fix! _Please_! I need a fix!"

"I… I don't know what you mean!"

Thin wisps of green fire were beginning to curl from the sides of the stranger's mouth.

"'_Root_!" he screamed "_Gimme_ _wyrdroot_!"

He gave a great, croaking cry and fell onto his hands and knees, belching green fire that burnt the grass in front of him. Jakob fell onto his back, the cutlass dropped forgotten at his side. He scrabbled furiously to open his doublet. Offering up a silent prayer of protection to Sigmar, he tossed a handful of 'root to the stranger and crawled away as fast as he could.

With an almost rapturous expression on his face, the stranger crammed the brown leaves into his mouth and fell onto his back, chewing vigorously. The atmosphere in the clearing suddenly relaxed, like a taught bowstring being released. With a piercing shriek, the faces were swallowed into the earth. The clouds faded to grey wisps against the obsidian sky.

"What go on?" asked Yan, eyes searching the ground for the faces.

"I… I don't know" Jakob panted as he climbed to his feet "I think… I think it was magic"

When he received no reply, Jakob turned to see Yan standing with his head cocked to one side.

"What's wrong?"

"_Ydyr_ come. Must go. Now"

Jakob strained his ears, but couldn't hear anything.

"Are you sure…?" he began to ask, but the Norscan was already sprinting towards the trees.

"Wait!" Jakob cried as the Norscan vanished from sight.

He was just about to panic when Yan reappeared, his white cloak fastened round his neck. He was also carrying Jakob's travel bag in his free hand.

"Here" he said, throwing it to Jakob. A quick rummage inside told Jakob that the journal was still safe. That was good. Things would have become even more complicated if he had lost the book…

"Come. We go south-west" Yan pointed to a particularly dense part of the forest.

Jakob nodded. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he started towards the trees. He had not gone five paces when he stumbled, the stranger's hands grasping his ankle.

"Don't leave me!" he moaned.

Jakob tried to shake him free, but the stranger clung on harder.

"Yan, help!"

Jakob felt the panic rise in his chest again. Now he could hear the drums. They were getting closer.

"Please" the stranger whined. Using Jakob as a support, he managed to pull himself to his feet. At first it looked like he would be unable to support himself, but after a few erratic steps he seemed to find his balance.

The drums were very close now. Jakob almost fancied he could hear the beastmen's hoofbeats.

"Hurry!" shouted Yan from the edge of the clearing. Jakob forced his sore limbs into a brisk run.

"What he doing?" asked Yan. Glancing back, Jakob saw the stranger following him close behind. His run was a stranger cross between a limp and a sprint, like a rabbit that hadn't quite got the hang of hopping.

"Don't… leave… me" he panted, waving furiously.

"Will he slow us down?" Jakob asked. The drums were almost on top of them now.

"He fall behind, he left behind" Yan shrugged.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing Franz noticed was the lack of colour. The dull winter sky was so unremarkable as to be incredible.

Franz rolled over. Every bit of his body throbbed with the movement. But that didn't matter. He felt… calm. Very calm. His thoughts were lazy, drifting softly across his mind's eye. They no longer burned like ice.

He looked round. He was lying on stone, beside a small stream. The stream ran down from the hill above in a narrow gully, and off into the pine forest ahead. The trees were thinner here, growing in soft, rich earth. It was all very ordinary, but to Franz, it was like paradise.

The colours stayed as they were. There were no winds to scald him. No shadows flickered between trees, always just beyond the edge of vision. Most importantly, there were no voices. Nobody to taunt him in words he couldn't hear, in tongues he didn't know, to make him promises he couldn't understand.

Franz licked his lips, tasting the wyrdroot. He was safe.

Where are they, he wondered, looking round again. Where are the people who gave me the 'root? Did someone give it to me? What happened to the monsters? Where had they all gone?

Franz spotted two men sitting on the opposite bank of the stream, their backs to a large stone. They made a very strange pair. The one on the left automatically drew the eye: huge and blonde, built like a bear with a huge axe across his knees. His companion was also tall, but with none of his companion's muscle. He was dark and pale, dressed in a fine suit of dark brown.

I should go over and talk to them, thought Franz, lying back. As soon as I've got the energy.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jakob leant back against the stone and let out a deep breath. Everything was quiet now. The events of the last few hours drifted by in the deep recesses of his mind as though they were naught but a bad dream.

To say that the last two days had come as a shock would have been a vast understatement. One minute he was a respectable, albeit poor, scholar desperately trying to put together his first work on the peoples of Norsca. The next, he had been thrown together with one of the aforementioned Norscans, had been forced to escape a smugglers' ship, stolen their ledger, narrowly avoided the villains' clutches, captured, scared half-to-death, nearly sacrificed, roasted alive and dismembered and, to top it all, was now in the company of a heretic wizard!

Throughout his bitter reflections, Jakob saw that his companion was staring off into the distance; apparently his favourite past time during times of hardship. The last few hours had truly torn through Jakobs's views of the Norscan. Indeed, when they had first met Jakob had thought him to be nothing more than a burdensome oaf. Yan's behaviour last night had shown him to be not only a skilled warrior, but a cunning one with tremendous woodcraft. Jakob was certain that his only chance of survival was to stick close to the Norscan, at least until they reached civilisation again.

"How did you do it?" Jakob asked, his curiosity got the better of him as he reached for his quill and parchment.

"Huh?" Yan blinked rapidly as he was drawn back into the here-and-now.

Jakob rolled his eyes. Apparently he hadn't been _completely_ wrong about the Norscan. "In the forest. The drums."

The Norscan's blue eyes widened in recognition. "Oh ya! Old Norscan trick. Used to hunt troll packs."

Jacob scratched away with his quill, waiting for the Norscan to elaborate on his answer. When none was forthcoming, Jakob discretely rolled his eyes as he prompted the big man. "How – did – you – do - it?"

Yan eyes met his in a scrutinizing gaze. Clearly the Norscan was unsure whether to reveal his secrets to Jakob. The Norscan's hard features relaxed though, much to Jakobs's relief as he began his explanation. "Use hollow logs. Make noise bounce off trees."

"So it's an illusion of sound?" Jakob asked, scratching away furiously in order to keep up with the Norscan

"Ya. Taught to Yan when Yan still young" the Norscan replied, his features locked in concentration as he recalled old memories.

"Are all Norscan's taught skills like this?"

"Ya," Yan replied, "taught from young to hunt."

Jakob nodded as he scribbled away, occasionally glancing from his parchment to Yan. "Are you taught to fight?"

Yan looked at him as though Jakob had just fallen out of a tree. "Ya, taught fight as soon as can walk. Also taught to _arbour_."

"_Arbour_?" Jakob asked perplexedly. "What's that?"

Yan frowned as he searched his limited understanding of Reik to find the proper translation. "_Arbour, _bear shirt, er…bear sking?"

"Berserking?"

"Ya."

Jakob drew in his breath as he remembered the previous night's encounter, when he had seen the savage glint that had entered Yan's eyes as he fought the monstrous ram-creature. From his own research on Norsca, Jack knew the berserker 'talent' was not a common ability amongst the Norscans. It was said to be incredibly difficult for a warrior to enter such a state of mind. The advantages however, were said to far surpass the cost: namely the loss of control. It was said that when a warrior entered this state of mind they possessed the strength of ten men and could shrug off blows that would fell an ogre. Seeing Yan last night Jakob found it all too easy to believe.

The scholar was interrupted from his pseudo-interrogation of Yan when their newest friend stumbled over to the rock. Jakob instinctively flinched as the sorcerer drew beside them. He noticed Yan do the same, although the Norscan tried to hide it.

"Hey, friends" the wizard said, a lazy smile spreading across his face. His voice, now he had rested, was soft and slow. He gave the impression of supreme relaxation. Jakob wondered what had happened to the hysterical creature that had followed them the night before. Was this what 'root could do to a man?

"Hey… how are you?" the wizard asked, sprawling onto the ground before the stone. Jakob carefully drew his feet up under his body.

"Whoa" the wizard said, his head waving slightly as if trying to get them into focus "What's with all the silence, friends?"

Yan was watching the wizard out of the corner of his eyes. Jakob suppressed a shudder: he recognised the predatory look on Yan's face from last night.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa" the wizard shook his head and broadened his smile "My name… is Franz… What's yours?"

He held out a skinny hand. Neither of them took it.

"Whoa, what's with all the… negative feeling, friends?" Franz asked.

"Get away from me, heretic" Jakob spat, feeling for his cutlass.

"He… heretic?" Franz didn't seem to understand.

"You're a wizard" Jakob said "A hedge wizard. A heretic chaos worshiper, no doubt. If we're caught with you, it's death."

"Wizard?" Franz looked puzzled

"Wizard? Is… is that what it is?"

He looked genuinely confused. Jakob surprised himself by feeling a small pang of sympathy for the unkempt sorcerer.

"I'm sorry, but you can't stay with us" he explained "We'll give you some food, but you must leave. Now"

It seemed that Franz had trouble taking this in.

"But… but you can't leave me" he said at length "Not… not with those… things so close."

"The greatest threat here is _you_" Jakob snapped, hand resting on the cutlass.

"Besides," he added, "aren't you their god, or something?"

"What? No!" Franz protested "I… hid in that tree. To escape them. They tried to get in and I… I panicked. I don't… don't know what happened after that. I remember… I remember fire, and being freed. But that's all."

It sounded plausible to Jakob, but he was unmoved.

"Go" he ordered "Take what you need, and go."

"Whoa, not a chance" said Franz, the lazy smile returning "I ain't leaving blondie here" he nodded at Yan "He's my way out of this place."

Jakob bridled and made to draw his cutlass, only to be restrained by Yan's arm.

"He not cause any more trouble" the Norscan pointed out.

"But he might" Jakob countered.

"If he do, we run. Or kill him"

Jakob considered this. It didn't have to be for long. They could lose him as soon as they reach civilisation. He just seemed to want to leave the forest, like them.

"Very well" he sighed, with bad grace "You can stay. But only while we're in the forest, understood?"

"Yeah, yeah" Franz said carelessly, stretching out and dangling one foot in the stream.

"So where're you from, blondie?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"Norsca"

"Norsca!"

For the first time since last night, Franz seemed genuinely bothered about something.

"So you're a Northman? A Chaos-worshipper?" he asked fearfully.

"No, that's a common misconception" Jakob began, before he could stop himself "I've been doing a lot of research on this subject, and there is a good deal of evidence to suggest that the coastal tribes, particularly those on the south coast, do not engage in any form of demon worship. Indeed, some tribes do not appear to engage in any sort religious observance at all…"

Jakob had just launched into a speech about the unusual, vegetable-based rituals observed by the Rukt tribe, as recorded by Richter von Oberstan, when Franz interrupted.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, friend. What are you? Some kind of expert?"

"I'm working on a book on the Norscan tribes" Jakob explained "I believe they are a greatly misunderstood people. Can you believe that they get less than half a chapter in von Klapam's treatise on 'The Race of Men'?"

Franz held up his hand to prevent another flood of unwanted information.

"Whoa, whoa. So… so, is this why you and blondie are together? You following him around?"

"I was trying to barter passage to Norsca" Jakob said ruefully "But there were… complications. _That's_ why we're together."

For better or for worse, he added silently.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 6**

"Whoa… Friends…"

"Quiet!"

"Hey, what –"

"Shut your _maul_. _Das_ hurt _nichts_!"

Yan tried to raise his axe. Three crossbows swung round to face him.

"Put it down, _dämlack_."

"Sigmar _bewahren_ _sie uns_! Do what they say!" said Jakob, trembling badly.

Yan stared at the weapons. His people did not use bows for hunting or war. He had never seen one used. But he had heard stories from the old men of the tribe. And he had seen the scars these weapons could leave. Very slowly, Yan placed the axe on the ground.

"Up _gegen_ _die wand_"

Yan didn't understand. He turned to Jakob for an explanation. The young man, normally pale, was now an unpleasant green. He was shaking badly.

"D-didn't you understand?" he asked in a low voice "Get up _gegen_ _die wand!_"

"Hey! _Sind_ _sie zuhörend_?"

One of the men waved his crossbow under Yan's nose. Jakob began talking very fast, using many words that Yan did not understand. After a moment's thought, the man with the crossbow stepped back. Jakob took Yan by the shoulders and turned him to face him.

"Listen!" he said in a loud, clear voice

"You"

He pointed to Yan.

"Go"

He pointed over to the other side of the yard.

"Stand – By – The - _Wand_"

"What?" said Yan.

"_Wand_…" Jakob clicked his fingers "Err… Strong… _Ziegelstein_… Side… House?"

"_Vaegg_?" suggested Yan.

"Yes! _Vaegg_! Wall!" said Jakob pointing frantically at the opposite side of the yard.

As he crossed the yard Yan glanced round, taking in everything, searching for anything he could use. The yard was cobblestone, surrounded on four sides by high brick walls. The roof was slate. There were windows on the second and first floors and two doors. An archway on the opposite side of the yard led out into the road. The gate was closed.

It had been late when they had entered this village (it had a Southern name that Yan could not pronounce). Yan had wanted to pass through. He had been anxious to press on, with the Southerner city not ten miles to the west. Besides, he did not feel comfortable with sleeping in a southern bed. But Jakob had insisted that they stop. For some reason that Yan still could not understand, the Southerner disliked sleeping in the open and had spent the last week complaining loudly about it. Besides that, they were both concerned for Franz. He had been looking worse and worse as they travelled south.

The gate of the coaching inn, the only one in the village, had been opened by two men. Too late had Yan noticed the figures crouched in the shadows beneath the archway.

There were six in all. They were Southeners, like Jakob.

"They are too scrawny to be warriors" Yan thought "But they use bows, like cowards, and that makes them dangerous."

Their attire was plain and travel worn. The two who had opened the gate wore broad brimmed hats, pulled low to conceal their faces. As well as a crossbow, each one carried a short, straight-bladed sword at his belt.

Yan was now standing against the north wall of the yard, Jakob on his right and Franz at the end. Jakob was obviously trying to control his shaking limbs. But it was Franz who was drawing the most attention. Bent nearly double at the waist, hands clutched to his temples, he was groaning as if wounded.

"What's wrong with him?" one of the men asked Jakob. He was a half-starved creature with a forked beard and one ear. Jakob shook his head and began talking to the man very fast, using many Reik words that Yan could not understand. The one-eared man shrugged and began questioning Jakob. Yan caught the words 'book' and 'hurt'. Jakob shook his head. He seemed to be protesting very strongly.

"What they want?" Yan asked Jakob.

"They want the book" Jakob replied under his breath "They say they won't hurt us if we give it to them."

"They work for smugglers?" asked Yan. Jakob turned a deeper shade of green.

"Shhh!" he hissed. The one-eared man gave a wicked grin and pushed his crossbow against Jakob's chest.

"So! Don't know nothin' about it, eh?" he said with a broken-toothed leer.

"You know," he continued "I _denken_ I should kill you and take it _sowieso_"

Yan bridled at the threat. He made to move towards the one-eared man, but was blocked by another man with a crossbow.

It was at this moment that the chimney exploded.

Bricks showered the yard. Some of the men screamed and ran for cover in the archway. Yan glanced up. Thick, purple clouds were gathering above the inn. Thin streaks of lightning danced in the folds of cloud.

Franz was now on his knees, his groans turning to screams of pain. The one-eared man turned from Jakob and tried to drag Franz upright. With a throat-tearing cry, Franz threw his arms out to protect himself and incinerated the one-eared man. The blast of fire rolled across the yard like an avalanche. It engulfed two of the men and forced the remaining three to leap aside.

"He-e-e-lp!" screeched Franz, turning to Jakob. Smoke was pouring from the sleeves of his smock. Little red-eyed faces leered out of the smoke, cackling in voices Yan couldn't hear.

"What? What do you want?" shouted Jakob, backing away across the yard.

"'Root! Give… give me the 'root!"

Jakob tore open his doublet and cast the oilskin package at the wizard's feet. Franz dropped down, ripped it open and crammed the wyrdroot into his mouth with both hands. As he curled up into a foetal position on the cobbles, the purple clouds rolled away. The smoke evaporated. The faces vanished. It had all happened in less than thirty seconds.

Yan scanned the yard again. There was no trace of the one-eared man. Two of his companions were blackened corpses, while the remaining three were just regaining their feet.

Stepping easily through the rubble of the chimney pot that now covered the yard, Yan scooped up his two-handed axe and made for the closest man. The man turned too late, his crossbow hanging limp from one hand. Yan stepped past the man, fetching him a heavy blow to the head with the butt of his axe as he went.

The second man, near the centre of the yard, had accidentally fired his crossbow in the act of diving for cover and was now forced to draw his short sword. Yan, knowing that to swing and miss against such an opponent was fatal, instead used his axe like a quarterstaff and used his superior size to throw his opponent to the floor.

He had just raised the axe for the killing blow, when he heard Jacob's shout. A third man had emerged from the archway, a loaded crossbow in his hand. It was too late for Yan to dodge. The crossbowmen had just sighted along his weapon when Jakob hurled a lump of brick at him. His aim was poor and he only struck the man's ankle, but it was enough to upset his aim. The bolt shot past Yan's left ear and clattered off the stone wall ahead of him. The man cursed and rounded on Jakob, his sword already in his hand. Jakob, using the wall beside him as a prop, staggered to his feet and drew his cutlass.

Yan would have quite liked to watch the Southerner fight, but he had his own battle to fight. The first man was nearly on his feet, and the second was in the act of crawling away to retrieve his sword. Yan stepped forward and delivered a sharp kick to the second man's ribs. There was a satisfying 'crack' of breaking ribs and the man rolled onto his back. Yan, placing one foot on the man's chest to keep him still, brought the axe down to sever his head from his body. The first man was now on his feet, his sword drawn. Yan's blow had shaken him so badly that his first thrust went so wildly astray than Yan simply stepped round him. He then proceeded to sever the man's collarbone right down to his belt with one neat cut.

Only Jakob's man now remained. Yan turned to watch the Southerner with the critical eye of an expert. He found that Jakob fought surprisingly well for such a stringy young man. His footwork in particular was impressive; avoiding all the rubble, which consistently unbalanced his opponent. The scholar deflected his opponent's blows well enough, but appeared unwilling or unable to press any kind of offence. The only way Jakob was likely to win, Yan realised, was if his opponent dropped dead of boredom.

Yan stepped forward to intervene. The man panicked, unsure of how to tackle two foes at once. In his panic he let his guard down and Jakob, thrashing blindly at him, caught him across the face with the flat of his cutlass. The man dropped his sword and fell back against the wall. Yan's first blow with the butt of the axe brought him to his knees. The second, to the back of the head, broke his neck.

"T-thanks." Jakob panted between breaths, slipping his cutlass back into his belt.

Yan ignored the thanks and turned to survey the carnage. One of the attackers had disappeared completely and two were little more than blackened corpses. Three more corpses lay scattered across the courtyard in pools of their own gore.

A brief flicker of white caught Yan's eye on the assailant whom he had cut in half. Giving the mutilated man a cursory glance Yan noticed that the flicker of white was not part of the mans attire.

"Hey, are you listening to me?" again, Jakob called out. Again, Yan ignored him.

Closing on the corpse, Yan gave a sharp tug on the white material and to his surprise; it came away with a slight 'sucking' sound. It was a piece of parchment badly stained with blood.

"What is it?" Jakob said as he peered over the Norscan's broad shoulder.

Yan thrust the piece of parchment at the scholar. "Read."

Jakob took one look at the bloodied parchment in the Norscan's hand and shook his head vigorously. "No way, I'm not touching that! Why don't you read it?"

Yan gave Jakob a flat stare.

The scholar mouthed a silent 'oh' and took the parchment from Yan, being careful to avoid the blooded areas, and preceded to read aloud:

"… Burghomeisters of Marienburg will pay a sum of no less than 1,000 gold crowns for the recovery of the Log Book for the vessel _The Swallow_"

"That the book you carry, no?" said Yan.

"Well… yes" said Jakob, slowly "But… why? What's in this book that's so valuable?"

Yan shrugged. Jakob had tried to explain the Southerners' laws to him, but he had quickly become lost. Norscan law was based on custom and the will of the chief. The only trial Yan knew of was a 'trial by combat'. The only evidence a man needed was a strong arm and a will to use it.

"Whoa… what happened here?"

Yan and Jakob turned round. Franz was gazing at the courtyard with a perplexed expression.

"Eww" he said, dipping his toe in a pool of blood "Y'know friends, you really should just _pay_ the bill the next time"

"Shut up" snapped Jakob. He was now gingerly trying to wipe the blood off the rest of the parchment. Unfortunately the blood had weakened parchment and it tore.

"Brilliant(!)" said Jakob bitterly, stuffing the surviving parchment into his bag "What am I going to do now?"

"They offer… gold for book?" asked Yan, his brow furrowed.

"Yes. That's what the notice said," said Jakob.

"Well… why not give them book and get gold?"

"Because… it doesn't make sense," said Jakob. Yan shrugged. This Southerner always tried to make things more complicated than they needed to be.

"What sense to make? They want book. We have book. They no smugglers. Simple"

"Alright… but I'm still not sure," Jakob said cautiously.

X X X X X X X X X X X X

The city of Marienburg is perhaps the safest city in the Old World. Its natural defences present an even greater obstacle than the towering cliffs of Middenheim. Bordered to the north by the sea, she is surrounded on three sides by the Cursed Marshes. These vast, fog-choked wetlands make a landward invasion near impossible. The only safe passage across the Marshes is on a great causeway running east to west, across the Marshes and straight through the city. Built during the golden age of dwarf craftsmanship, it is a feat of engineering unparalleled in the world of men. Raised on a bank of earth and stone, it carries the road above the choking vapours of the Marshes and safely into Marienburg. In its day it would have been flagged with white stone and lined with statues of exquisite beauty. But those days are long gone. The road is now cracked and overgrown. The few statues that remain lie forgotten by the roadside.

Travellers on the Middenheim Road, running west into Marienburg, are rare. The Cursed Marshes are well named. People are likely to go miles out of their way to catch a riverboat north, rather than risk crossing the causeway. Only the brave, the poor or the desperate take that road.

Jakob definitely fell into the third category. He wasn't afraid of what lurked in the fog beyond the roadside; all his terror was reserved for the threadbare wizard ambling along beside him. The knowledge that the sleepy young man could unleash such power was unnerving, to say the least. Even though nothing even remotely strange had happened since they left the inn the previous night, Jakob was still on edge. To his immense irritation, Yan seemed perfectly unconcerned about either the wizard or the bounty hunters. He just strode on, staring straight ahead with a purposeful look on his face.

"It's alright for him" Jakob grumbled to himself "He's a 'heap big mighty warrior'. He's probably used to this sort of thing. The sooner I get rid of this poxy book and back to my research the better."

"What?" said Yan, looking round.

"Nothing" Jakob snapped, not turning to look at the Norscan.

They met few travellers on the road. They were mainly hardy types from the Wasteland; trappers, peddlers and the like. Jacob went cold every time they passed someone. Visions of crossbows and hidden daggers loomed large in his mind's eye. Yan didn't seem to notice them. Franz waved, smiling vaguely. Nobody responded.

They reached the Westenpoort Gate early in the afternoon, having stopped for a brief rest a few miles from the city. Partly because of Marienburg's superb location and partly because of their own greed, the ruling Council of Burghomeisters spend very little on maintaining the city's defenses. The brown stone walls of the city are in a poor state. Whole areas of the battlements have crumbled away, to be replaced with ramshackle wooden constructs that shake violently in the wind and frequently collapse.

When the three travellers arrived, they found the Westenpoort Gate open and flanked by two militiamen. Despite their neglect of the walls, the Burghomeisters take especial care that the city militia, who serve as watchmen, soldiers and personal bodyguard, are well equipped. These two were no exception, looking splendid in their gleaming breastplates and green and black tunics. The halberds at their side looked sharp and well used. The militiaman on Jakob's left stepped forward and lowered his halberd at the approaching travellers.

"State your business," he said in a rather bored voice.

"I'm… _we're_ here to see the city council" Jakob said. The militiaman was looking at him very strangely all of a sudden. Behind him, his companion had disappeared through the Westenpoort Gate.

"I'm afraid you'll have to… wait here," said the militiaman. He seemed decidedly uneasy now.

"What happen?" asked Yan. The Norscan was staring at the tip of the militiaman's halberd as if it had personally offended him.

"He says we have to wait here" said Jacob in the slow, deliberate voice he used when talking to Yan.

"Why?"

"Because he's the one with the halberd"

"I have axe"

"He has _lots_ of halberds," said Jakob, looking over the militiaman's shoulder. The militiaman's companion had returned with a patrol of two dozen halberdiers. At their head was an officer. He had gold trim on his breastplate and a green plume on his helmet.

"Are you Jakob Brustgewicht?" he asked.

"I… am" said Jakob, uneasily. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Yan's grip tightening on the axe.

"In that case, I arrest you in the name of the Council of Burghomeisters" the officer said. He made a sign and six halbediers stepped forward to restrain the travellers.

"Arrest?!" shouted Jakob as the two halbediers seized his arms "Why? What have I done?!"

The officer reached inside his tunic and produced a notice. It was a complete copy of the one Yan had taken from the bounty hunter's body. It read:

"Let it be know that The Council of Burghomeisters of Marienburg will pay a sum of no less than 1,000 Gold Crowns for the recovery of the Log Book for the vessel _The Swallow_ and a further 500 Gold Crowns for the capture of the thieves Jackob Brustgewicht of Altdorf and the Northman Yan, Dead or Alive."


End file.
